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Churches

Kevin Prufer

Issue 197, Summer 2011

In 1981 in a hotel gift shop outside Phoenix, AZ, a little girl stood by the postcard rack, turning it gently. It creaked. She considered a picture of the desert, then looked around for her mother, who was elsewhere. She gave the rack a firm push so it spun gently on its axle, smiled, pushed it again, and the postcard rack wobbled on spindly legs. And soon she had it spinning so quickly the cards made long blurry streaks in their rotation, gasps of blue for sky, yellow for sand, and then faster, the girl slapping at it with her hand, grinning at me, and then a single postcard rose from the rack, spun in the air and landed at my feet, a picture of a yawning canyon, and then another, handfuls of postcards rising from the rack, turning in the air while the girl laughed and her oblivious mother, at the other end of the store, bought a map or a box of fudge, and then the air was full of pictures, all of them shouting Phoenix, Phoenix, Phoenix, twirling and falling until the empty postcard rack groaned once more, tipped, and crashed through the window.

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There ought to be a word that suggests how we’re balanced at the very tip of history and behind us everything speeds irretrievably away. “It’s called impermanence,” the little girl said, looking at the mess of postcards on the floor. “It’s called transience,” she said, gently touching the broken window. “It’s called dying,” she said. It was 1981 and the clerk ran from behind the counter and stood before us. The girl smiled sweetly. The postcard rack glittered in the sun and broken glass. He turned to me and my face grew hot, I couldn’t help it. I was blushing.

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In 2009, my father lay in a hospital bed gesturing sweepingly with his hands. “What are you doing?” I asked him. “I’m building a church,” he said. “You’re making a church?” I said. “Can’t you see?” he said. He seemed to be patting something in the air, sculpting something—a roof?—that floated above him. The hospital room was quiet and white. “What kind of church is it?” “I’m not finished.” “Is it a church you remember?” “Goddamn it,” he said. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

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Featured Audio

Wells Tower

"Down through the Valley"

Salon, November 2001

We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet

"Down through the Valley"

Salon, November 2001

We reached the car, and I held the door open for him, but he didn't climb in right away. He stood there rocking on his crutch, gazing off at the sky and the fields and the fall trees starting to go the color of sherbet

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